


Bang

by Alliterative_Albatross



Series: Better Love [4]
Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Banter, Brother-Sister Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Discussion of Gun Violence, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gun Violence, Guns, Shooting Guns, Slice of Life, Steve Murphy is a good bro, gun range
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:22:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29516649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alliterative_Albatross/pseuds/Alliterative_Albatross
Summary: ‘Steve looks up, meeting Javi’s eyes. Something passes between them, acknowledgement or maybe even an alliance, Steve’s not sure which. But Javi’s desperate to keep you safe, and Steve understands that implicitly.’Javi acquires you a gun. Steve Murphy POV
Relationships: Javier Peña/Reader, Javier Peña/You
Series: Better Love [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2073882
Comments: 8
Kudos: 30





	Bang

The last thing Steve Murphy expected to be doing on his first Saturday off in six weeks was answering a phone call from Javier Peña.

“I need you to come to the range with me today.”

Steve groans, rubs his eyes, and shuffles to the sink, the phone cord stretching taut as he crosses the kitchen. “Good thing I’m not busy,” he drawls, fishing free yesterday’s coffee mug and looking it over critically. It’ll do. “What’s up? Forget how to rack your slide?”

A sharp breath crackles in Steve’s ear. “I got Ears a gun.”

“Jesus fuck, somebody’s living on the edge.” Steve’s ribbing on you, naturally, but with conditions spiraling in Bogotá the way they are, it’s honestly not a bad idea. Those Los Pepes motherfuckers have really thrown a kink in things, and the entire city is on red alert. “So what do you need me for?”

Dead silence. 

“Javi?” Steve glances down at the phone, wondering if the call’s been disconnected. It hasn’t. “Javi, seriously -”

“I want her to be good at it,” Javi bites out, and Steve can just see the expression on his face. Flat, annoyed, jaw tense enough to grind teeth.

“Huh,” Steve answers. Javi’s not a terrible shot, but he’d be better if he wore his glasses like he’s supposed to. Either way, there’s no denying that Steve is a natural with a gun. Hell, he’s got the awards to prove it. 

It eats Javi alive, knowing that he’s second fiddle to Steve in anything. For him to admit it aloud implies a self-awareness and humility that Steve frankly hadn’t realized that Javier Peña possessed.

Damn, you must be awful.

“Alright,” Steve sighs, cradling the phone to his shoulder as he fumbles with the coffee filters. Damn things are always stuck together. “Gimme time to get moving.”

“Meet us downstairs in ten minutes.”

The line goes dead, and Steve frowns at it. “Motherfucker.” 

He looks wistfully toward his unmade bed.

So much for his free day. 

* * *

Steve clambers down the garage steps thirteen minutes later. You’re perched casually on the hood of Javi’s Bronco, swinging your leg contentedly. 

Javi’s pacing circles around you. 

“About time,” he says as he yanks the driver’s side door open with a little more force than is strictly necessary. Fucking drama queen. “Let’s go.”

“Good morning to you, too,” Steve mutters. He ambles around to the passenger side of the car, still holding his steaming cup of coffee, where he’s met by a fierce glare. 

Javi’s circled around the front of the vehicle, placed a warning hand on Steve’s forearm. His eyes spell danger. “You’re in the back.” There’s no arguing with his tone.

Steve cranks a brow, glancing toward you. You’re damn near a foot shorter, much better sized to cram into a bumpy back seat for a thirty minute drive through morning traffic, but one look at Javi’s face says everything. 

Steve’s been demoted. 

“Alright,” he shrugs. It crosses his mind to tell Javi that he’ll drive, but he can see by the expression on Javi’s face that this suggestion would go over like a lead balloon. 

Javi’s tense today. Well, more tense than normal. 

You shoot Steve a little wince of sympathy as he folds his lanky body and clambers into the back of the Bronco. At least you’re small enough to pull your seat forward a good bit. Steve doesn’t even have to ask you to do it, either. 

He appreciates the legroom.

* * *

The ride to the range is awkward. Javi hasn’t seemed to relax too much. Steve notices that the morning traffic seems to be really getting to him today, with all the little curses Javi’s been muttering beneath his breath. 

Steve wonders what’s eating him. Road rage tends to be his thing, not Javi’s.

He doesn’t miss the way that you reach across the console and grip Javi’s hand, or the way that Javi stiffens at your touch. Steve winces a little at that. He can remember Connie doing the same thing a thousand times, offering comfort in the only way she’d known how. 

Steve had brushed her aside a thousand times.

Steve decides it’s best not to think about Connie today. There’s nothing he can do to fix things right now anyway, and it only puts him in a shit mood. He leans forward on his elbows. “So, what’s the story on the gun?”

A muscle in Javi’s jaw ticks. “We live in Colombia, Murphy.” He flops his hand toward the open driver’s side window, as if to say, ‘look around, dumbass.’

Jesus.

You twist around in your seat to offer Steve an apologetic twitch of your lips. “Don’t mind him,” you say, jabbing at Javi with your elbow. Javi glances away, gluing his eyes to the road. “He’s just pissed because he’s having to spend so much time in Medellín.” 

Steve grins. You’re calling Javi out, and Steve loves to see it. “Oh? Trouble in paradise?” he can’t help but tease.

“No.” You and Javi answer at exactly the same time. It’s kind of cute. It kind of makes Steve want to vomit.

The conversation seems to have pulled Javi out of his head a little, because he meets Steve’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “She’s in that apartment alone,” he says, and there’s something pointed, meaningful about his expression. “I don’t want her stuck there without a way to defend herself if she needs to.”

Oh. Steve picks up on what Javi’s not saying. Word around the street is, Escobar has raised the price of a DEA agent’s head from $350,000 to $500,000. So far, nothing’s come of it. There aren’t many _sicarios_ crazy enough to take on a government employed gringo, and besides, the U.S. Department of Justice had really shelled out on their apartments - sprawling, upscale pads in the heart of Bogotá that had put Steve’s little two bedroom box in Miami to shame. 

Still, Escobar’s getting desperate, and a desperate man is dangerous. 

It’s not just the price on Javi’s head that’s a threat, either. There’s a full on bombing campaign brewing between Escobar and those Los Pepes fuckers. It seems like every few days, there’s another breaking report on the news, another case file piling up on Martinez’s desk, another body count.

Colombia is a fucking warzone, there’s no denying that now.

Steve winces at the thought. Nearly losing you in that bombing had really shaken Javi. He’d gone from cool and distant about your relationship to downright protective, almost twitchy, treating you like you’re made of glass. 

Steve can’t blame him. It had scared him, too, seeing you like that. Once he’d heard the full story, that you’d been forty feet from the explosion, that you’d spent a week in the hospital coughing up blood and fighting just to breathe, well, Steve’s been kicking himself for not forcing you into an ambulance ever since. 

Steve looks up, meeting Javi’s eyes. Something passes between them, acknowledgement or maybe even an alliance, Steve’s not sure which. But Javi’s desperate to keep you safe, and Steve understands that implicitly. 

For the first time, he’s a little grateful that Connie had left when she did. 

“We’ll take care of it today,” Steve says softly, and Javi nods, something relaxing subtly in his expression. 

This time, when you reach for Javi’s hand, Steve notices that Javi grips you tightly.

* * *

Steve turns your gun over in his hands, whistling low under his breath. A Glock G18. A military grade weapon, it had made quite a bit of noise in certain circles when it was first released a couple of years ago, and Steve’s been itching to get his hands on one ever since. It’s unassuming and discreet, a fully automatic machine gun in the package of a compact pistol. This baby packs some series heat, firing off 1200 rounds a minute.

Steve arches an impressed brow in your direction. “Goddamn, Ears, are you sure you’re woman enough for this?”

He doesn’t even bother listening to your irascible response, tuning you out in favor of releasing the magazine from the well. It springs into his palm with a satisfying smack, and Steve looks it over, counting the cartridges that are nestled inside.

Nineteen rounds.

“How the fuck did you even find one of these, anyway?” Steve mutters, thinking a little enviously of his government issued Colt that sits in his belt. There’s a reason he’s never seen one in the flesh - the G18 model is rare, and not available on the public market.

Silence answers him. Absolute, heavy silence, the kind of which is rarely heard on a gun range. 

Steve glances up, feeling suddenly like he’s stuck his foot in his mouth and having no idea why.

You are glaring daggers at Javi, your arms folded firmly across your chest. Javi is glaring daggers at Steve, his arms folded firmly across his chest. His hips cocked in that no nonsense stance that Steve recognizes as an implicit threat. 

It would be funny as fuck if there wasn’t something like dread sinking in the pit of Steve’s stomach.

A gun like this really shouldn't be available in Colombia.

Again, Steve turns the Glock over in his hands, noticing for the first time the empty space on the little metal plating beneath the trigger guard.

Frowning, Steve eyeballs it a little closer. He’s handled a few Glocks before. He knows where the serial number should be.

This gun doesn’t have one.

“Javi,” Steve murmurs lowly, alarm bells screaming a frantic warning in his head. The implications of what he’s seeing, of what he’s not seeing _,_ are pretty dark.

“Steve.” Javi’s eyes glitter dangerously. His expression clearly says ‘leave it.’

But Steve’s instincts don’t want to leave it. Every gun has a serial number. Well, every _legally acquired_ gun, that is. The fact that yours doesn’t can only mean one thing - it’s a trafficked weapon. As DEA agents, Steve and Javi don’t usually go toe to toe with weapons traffickers, but the illegal weapons trade is undeniably a problem in Colombia. 

A big problem. Escobar’s got to get his guns somewhere, after all, and he’s far from the only armed threat in Colombia. 

Nausea roils in Steve’s gut. He exchanges a quick, concerned glance with you. The shrug you offer in return is barely a flick of your shoulder, but it tells Steve everything he needs to know. Clearly, you’ve exhausted this line of questioning with Javi already, and it’s gotten you nowhere.

Well, then. Steve blusters a long, broken sigh through pursed lips, looking at your gun with newfound wariness. “Alright,” he says after a moment, knowing after five years of marriage that sometimes it’s best to let sleeping dogs - or ticking time bombs - lie. He slams the magazine home with a sharp click. “Let’s see how she shoots.”

* * *

“Hang on,” Steve raises his hands, shoving his silencing headphones around his neck and stalking toward you. “You’re telling me that you have a military background, but you can’t hit the broadside of a barn with a fucking BB gun?”

Your shoulders slump, and you cradle the little .22 pistol in your hands, blustering a sigh that’s volume is truly impressive for a woman of your size.

Javi cuts his eyes toward Steve, a pleading glance as if to say, ‘see why I need you?’

Steve comes closer, a little concerned that you haven’t already cut him down to size. It’s not like you to take his teasing without clapping back.

“I wasn’t exactly _military,”_ you’re saying softly, still fiddling with the gun in your hand. Steve is relieved to note that at least you’ve put it on safety, so he holds still, lets you talk. “I spent most of my time in a classroom, Steve, or…” You bite at your lip, nostrils flaring in annoyance. Steve waits patiently for you to get the words out. “Or… in Kuwait, I was ‘training’ to be an analyst.” Steve can damn near hear the bitter quotation marks you’re placing around ‘training,’ as if you’re spitting the word from your mouth with a vengeance. Your eyes drop to your feet. “Which mostly consisted of refilling coffee pots and filing reports,” you admit to your ratty shoes. 

Steve winces a little at the resentment in your tone. If there’s one thing he’s learned about you in the months you’ve been in Colombia, it’s that you’re fiercely independent. Being underestimated really grinds your gears. 

Exposing a vulnerability is even worse. 

Steve gets that. He’s felt vulnerable ever since he’d stepped foot off of that plane in Bogotá. A laughingstock, a blonde gringo, too stupid to learn the language, unfamiliar with the nuanced culture of Colombia and not important enough to rub shoulders with the right people. 

It grates on him, too.

He moves a little closer, bumping his shoulder against yours in a gentle gesture of encouragement. You glance up at him, and Steve twitches his lips, thinking that maybe you have more in common than he’d ever have thought. He extends his palm, and wordlessly, you place the pistol in it, its safety engaged, the barrel pointed away. 

Nice. 

“Okay, so here’s what I’m seeing,” Steve says, backing away half a step. He’s noticed Javi hovering over your opposite shoulder. Steve smiles at you, the expression feeling a little unnatural after a year in Colombia. “You’ve got a decent grasp on the mechanics of the gun. You handle it like you know what you’re holding, which is good.”

You nod, your expression brightening some. “Maybe that weapons certification is worth something,” you admit with a wry grin.

“Exactly,” Steve nods approval. He can work with this. He shoots you a pointed look. “It’s your shooting that sucks, Ears.”

You bluster another huffy sigh through your nose, looking like you desperately want to roll your eyes. “I’m an analyst, Steve, not an agent,” you explain wearily, more of that frustration leaking into your tone. Your eyes cut briefly to Javi, and then away, back to the ground.

And even more pieces fall into place. Steve’s heart goes out to you. He glances back at Javi, who is standing back with his arms folded across his chest, staring at you with dark, assessing eyes. He looks intense, sure, but that intensity is directed solely at you, like he’s willing you to pick up that gun and fight for your life. _You have nothing to prove to Javier Peña,_ the words itch on Steve’s tongue. _He loves you, just like you love him. This is all because he loves you, you silly girl. He just wants to keep you safe._

But Steve knows better than to say that, so he keeps his mouth clamped shut, grinding his teeth together with the effort until his jaw aches. 

He’d thought that bomb might have taught you something, but you’re both still fucking morons. 

“No, no, no, Ears,” he murmurs instead, once he’s got his thoughts in place. You look up at him, face all screwed up in a petulant frown, and Steve is tempted to laugh at that, at how fucking expressive you are. Javi’s part of this relationship should be so easy. “Don’t get down. It’s nothing that’s not fixable.” Steve slides the training gun into his belt, freeing up his hands. First thing is to correct your body stance. “You’ve just got some bad habits to unlearn, that’s all.”

“Oh, that’s all?” you laugh sarcastically, but there’s a fire in your eyes that hadn’t been there before, and Steve counts that as a big win.

“That’s why we’re here, babe,” Javi seems to have finally caught some sense, because he comes to you, draping an arm over your shoulder and squeezing gentle reassurance. “To work out the kinks.”

Steve doesn’t miss the way you lean into each other, notices how Javi’s eyes linger at your temple, like he’s tempted to steal a little kiss when nobody’s looking. 

“Just do it, you moron,” Steve mutters under his breath. 

And oh, shit, Javi must have heard that, because those eyes flash up to meet Steve’s, glittering and dangerous. 

Steve shrugs him away. Javi will either figure it out or he won’t, but it’s not Steve’s job to babysit your relationship. 

No matter how badly he’s tempted to.

“Okay, Ears,” Steve says, gathering everybody’s attention back to the job at hand. The more time he spends with you and Javi, the more his own heart aches for his wife. Part of him just wants to finish this day so he can go bury his feelings in a cheap bottle of tequila, damn the consequences. “We need to get you to relax a little. You’re carrying a lot of tension, in your shoulders particularly. Shake it off.”

You roll your shoulders halfheartedly, bouncing a little on your toes. Steve shoots a pointed glance at Javi, who sighs, but moves to pin you to his chest, his fingers working little circles at the base of your neck, at your clavicle, down your deltoids. 

You giggle, and Steve turns his face away, busying himself with unloading the little pistol that you’ve been practicing with.

“Okay, we good?” he asks after a minute or so.

“Much better.” Your voice is lighter, and Javi is still standing next to you, looking far more relaxed than he has all morning.

“Okay.” Steve hands you the pistol, butt first. You take it carefully, gripping it expertly with both hands, its muzzle pointed down. 

“Right, now we’re just working on stance,” Steve tells you. You nod understanding, and Steve gestures to the range, where a humanoid cutout waits at 50 yards. “I just want to see you aim, okay? We’re not even firing yet.”

“Alright,” you say, looking damned near chipper, and Steve wonders if it’s the actual shooting that worries you, the noise and the kick of the gun as it fires. He files that away for later, something ominous sinking in his stomach.

You line up, eyeballing the target with an intensity that is frankly scary, and Steve watches you shift your weight back and forth. You extend your arms, cradling the handle of the gun in both hands, looking intently down the sights. 

“Okay,” you say after a long moment, and Steve takes this to mean that you’re ready to shoot. 

“Hold what you got,” he says, circling you with an assessing eye. Your stance isn’t all that bad. Steve makes a few adjustments, softening the bend in your knees, extending your elbows so that they’re locked, cocking your hips forward, each time glancing back toward Javi to confirm that it’s okay to touch you. 

Javi’s watching carefully, his eyes sparking like he wants to be the one wrapping his fingers around your waist to engage those hamstrings, but that’s Steve’s job, and he knows it. 

Steve makes one last correction, squaring your shoulders so that your arms are extended equally, then backs away quickly. “Alright, this is what you’re going to want to feel when you shore up. Take a second, learn it.”

You take a deep breath, sifting your weight, testing your muscles, taking stock of the position that your body is in. “Got it,” you say confidently, and Steve believes you. 

“Okay.” Steve circles you again, finding nothing to correct. “Your gun is going to kick a lot more than this pistol you’re holding, so it’s important to absorb that energy with your trunk, and not your arms. Keep those elbows extended, be ready for your shoulders to engage upward as you fire, and rock back with your ass and core, not your elbows. Understand?”

“Yup.” 

“Good.” Steve takes the .22, loads it quickly, and hands it back to you. “Take a shot this time.”

You draw a deep breath, twitching your fingers, and then, in one fluid motion, you fall into perfect firing stance, as natural as if you’d been doing it all your life.

Steve shoots a proud little glance toward Javi, who is watching intently, a dark scowl on his face.

After a long moment, you fire. The shot goes wide to the left, missing the target entirely. Steve winces, seeing the problem. 

And it’s a big one.

“Fuck,” you spit as you engage the safety. You whirl around, fixing pleading eyes on Steve. “What the hell am I doing wrong?”

Steve grimaces. Your problem is by far the most common issue that plagues rookies on the base, and by far the hardest to fix. “You’re flinching, Ears,” he says grimly. 

You cock your head to the side, a question clear in your eyes.

“You’ve probably heard this before, but you’re supposed to squeeze the trigger, not jerk it. Slow and controlled. The gun should surprise you when it fires.”

You bite back a huge sigh, once again dropping your eyes to the floor. “Shit,” you spit between clenched teeth. 

Javi is at your side in an instant. “Hey,” he says, bumping his shoulder against yours. One hand comes to graze at your chin, forcing you to look him in the eye. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you growl, seeming annoyed at all the attention. “It’s just… I don’t like it, okay?”

Javi blinks a little at that. “What, the idea of taking a life?”

Steve moves a little closer, knowing instinctively that your problem isn’t rooted in morality.

You shrug a little, looking away. “I mean, yeah, I don’t like that either, but I could do it if I had to.” You grip Javi’s hand and squeeze tight. “It’s more about… I dunno, the sound?”

Steve can tell that it’s hard for you to admit that. “What happened?” he asks, coming around to lean in at your opposite side. 

You hiss a breathy sigh, still looking at those nasty ass shoes, and Steve shares a glance with Javi over your shoulders. There’s something else going on here, something more than just a fear of loud noises. The headphones take care of that.

“It’s so stupid,” you confess, digging the dirty toe of your converse into the grass. 

“Nothing’s stupid,” Steve answers immediately. Javi’s face contorts, like he wishes he’d have thought to say that first.

Well, he’ll learn.

“No, really it is,” you huff a little self deprecating laugh, and Javi leans against you, offering comfort in the only way he knows how. 

Good. Maybe he’ll pick up on this relationship thing quicker than Steve had. 

“So.” You fiddle with your sleeves, working them between your thumbs in a motion that gives away your discomfort more than your tone ever could. “When I was a kid, my brothers used to chase me with fireworks.”

Steve bites back a laugh. He’s not one to revel in somebody’s childhood trauma, but the image that comes to mind is pretty fucking funny - a tiny, spitfire Ears, all wild hair and loud, demanding voice, on the run from a pack of dumbass little boys. He imagines that you gave just as good as you got, and the thought warms something in him. 

Your brothers would have deserved it, and more.

Javi shoots him a look, and Steve schools his expression, listening.

“And one fourth of July, I dunno, I guess I was about seven,” you continue, oblivious to the exchange that’s happening between Steve and Javi, “They cornered me at Dad’s truck. He was inside. He didn’t like the noise, either.”

Steve hums a little, wondering if your dad had been military, too. It sort of sounds like it.

“Danny was twelve, old enough to be a real asshole, and Zeke was a little younger, easy to manipulate.” 

Steve reads a lot of your childhood right there. Obviously, you’d been closer to Zeke. He wonders how the rest of the story plays out, if you still keep in contact with either of them. 

“I hid under the truck, behind the back wheel, but Danny lit a whole pack of whistlers.” You bite back a grimace, looking up at Steve with an expression that’s half pointed, half pleading. “You know the ones. They make noise, then explode?”

“I know the ones,” Steve says. Part of him is tempted to put a steadying arm around you, but he’s acutely aware of Javi at your opposite side, listening to you speak with a clenched jaw and a stony expression. 

So Steve stays put.

“Anyway, he threw them under the truck, all twelve of them, and I barely had time to crawl out.” You grimace, biting your lip at the memory. “One got me in the back of the knee. Another grazed my elbow. One on the ass.” You laugh a little, shaking your head as if you can shake away that old fear so easily. “Dad was livid, when he found out. And I’ve been a little gunshy ever since.” You shrug your shoulders apologetically, as if to say, ‘this is what you’re working with.’

“Christ,” Javi spits below his breath. He doesn’t put his arm around you, the dumbass, but he shifts in a little, and you lean against him, dropping your head on his shoulder for half a second, accepting the comfort that he’s willing to offer. 

“Okay,” Steve says, working his lips a little against all of the things he wants to say. He comes up empty, and tells himself that it’s probably a good thing. No sense getting into all of that now, anyway. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” He shoots a pointed glance at Javi. 

Javi’s eyes are burning. His expression tense again, that same muscle ticking in his jaw, but when he meets Steve’s eyes, there’s a determination there, a solidarity that had been missing before. 

Good.

“Get back in your stance, Ears,” Steve says, coming to stand near you in hopes that a body at your side is a comfort, rather than added pressure. “Javi’s going to brace you against the kick of the gun, okay?”

You purse your lips, nodding in determination. “Okay.”

Javi comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your torso, whispering something in your ear. Steve turns away, allowing you the moment. 

After a second or two, Steve hands you the earphones, wincing a little in apology. “There’s nothing I can do about the sound,” he tells you gently. “Guns are loud. That’s just part of it.”

“That’s fine,” you say. Your face is all steely resolve. 

Steve’s lips twitch a little at that. “Okay, then. Javi’s going to hang on to you, okay? Just hold some pressure against your body so that you know there’s nothing to be afraid of, alright?”

You snort. “I know that.”

Steve sighs. “I know you do,” he answers with more patience that he’d thought he was capable of. “But your body doesn’t, right? It’s holding on to some old instincts, and we’ve got to prove to it that there’s nothing to be afraid of, okay?”

“Okay,” you sigh. Steve can tell that you’re still being pretty hard on yourself, but Javi is there, pressed against you, whispering words of reassurance into your ear. 

“Ready?” Steve asks, nodding toward the loaded gun in your hands. 

“Ready,” you confirm, squaring up with a stubborn glint in your eye. Javi wraps his body around yours, his hands coming to stabilize your elbows, his chest pressed tightly to your back, his head resting contentedly at your shoulder.

Bullseye. 

“Nice,” Javi hisses, sneaking a proud little kiss at the edge of your jaw. 

Steve smiles. 

Maybe you and Javi aren’t so hopeless after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> So, a quick word on guns and gun violence. I had a hard time deciding how to approach this fic, and if I should even post it at all. The last thing I’d ever want to do is glorify gun violence, especially given the climate in the U.S. today. After some reflection, this is what I’ve arrived at: Colombia in the early 1990′s was an active war zone. Based on my research, the show actually did a pisspoor job of portraying this accurately. Ears’ life would have been in danger on a daily basis, and Javi is correct to be concerned for her safety.
> 
> That being said, I don’t want to compare Colombia of the 90′s to the United States today. I also don’t want to compare Colombia of the 90′s to Colombia of today. That’s never been my intent. It’s a different time, a different situation, and an entirely different culture, and none of my writing is intended to be taken as commentary on the current political or racial climates anywhere. I recognize that I have many, many privileges to overcome in regards to understanding this issue implicitly, and I am absolutely open to polite discussion. Please feel free to hit up my inbox or DM’s. As long as you are kind in your delivery, I am eager to listen and learn.  
> I recognize that I’m opening myself up to a shitstorm of commentary, and I’m okay with that. I’m being as vulnerable and open as I know how to be, and I hope I’m approaching this from a place of humility and grace. Again, thank you for your kindness and consideration. 
> 
> Weapons trafficking is going to continue to be a huge issue in the Better Love ‘verse, so if gun violence really bothers you, you might consider ducking out here. I don’t hold that against you at all. Violence of any kind is never something that I want to glorify in my fic, but it has happened, and continues to happen, and I want to reflect reality in my stories as accurately as possible, out of respect for my characters and respect for the real life families who have been irrevocably impacted by the drug war.
> 
> Mad love and soft hugs,
> 
> Jay.


End file.
